


shame I wash away with his blood

by procellous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dark Sansa Stark, Dark Theon Greyjoy, Dark Theonsa, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Erotic Depictions of Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Murder, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Revenge, Vaginal Sex, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21938584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: Ramsay has the gall to look surprised as Theon smashes his forehead into his nose. The small bones of his nose break with a sound like stepping on porcelain. Blood drips down to his mouth, staining his thin, pale lips red.
Relationships: Ramsay Snow/Being Fucking Dead, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 78





	shame I wash away with his blood

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the Theonsa discord, who encouraged me. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals. <3
> 
> In case you couldn't tell by the tags, this is VIOLENT, DARK, and, I am reliably informed, VERY HOT, but with some fluff at the end to make it all better.

Ramsay has the gall to look surprised as Theon smashes his forehead into his nose. The small bones of his nose break with a sound like stepping on porcelain. Blood drips down to his mouth, staining his thin, pale lips red. 

He stumbles back, clutching his nose, and Theon leaps on him, knocking him on his back and pinning him down. 

The sound of his fist hitting Ramsay’s face again and again is the most satisfying sound he’s ever heard—wet sounds of skin breaking, bones shifting, bruises blooming; the small grunts and groans of Ramsay underneath him as he strikes Ramsay’s cheeks, nose, eyes, forehead. He’s not bothering to aim. All that matters is pain. He doesn’t want to beat Ramsay to death, not when Sansa has other plans, but that’s the only thing restraining him. 

Theon pauses, fist still raised, appraising the damage he’s done. Blood drips from his gloved knuckles, splashing down onto Ramsay’s red face. 

Ramsay gives him a blood-stained grin, chest heaving in weak laughter, eyes rolling in his head. Theon grabs him by the throat and smashes his fist into Ramsay’s mouth twice, glad that Sansa had sewn reinforcement into the fingers of his gloves. 

The effect is nothing short of glorious—broken teeth, a fresh flood of blood on his cheeks and chin, his jaw hanging in two directions, his head lolling on his neck. 

Theon heaves for breath, letting his head fall back, letting his gaze drift to where Sansa is watching, her gloved hand resting on her belly, her mouth curved into a smile. 

Everything around her is ash and blood and broken stone, the remnants of the battle surrounding them. With the white fabric of her gown draping over the swell of her pregnancy, she doesn’t seem to fit with the ravaged landscape around her. 

Falling snowflakes crown her in silver filigree. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen and he’s going to marry her in a few hours. 

Just as soon as they widow her. 

He hears a terrible hoarse sound, and for a moment wonders if Ramsay is awake again before realizing that it’s his own laughter. He hasn’t laughed in so long; the muscles in his face are already sore from holding a smile. 

He looks down on Ramsay’s battered face again, triumph swelling in his breast like a proud bird unfurling wings. He’s won. Theon’s beaten Ramsay at last. 

Sansa dabs at Theon’s face with a damp cloth, wiping away the worst of the blood and the dirt. Fierce as he looks covered in blood, she likes it when she can still see him through it. 

“Take off your gloves,” she orders, “I want to take a look at your hands.”

“The reinforcement helped,” he says, pulling them off with his teeth, a shine in his eye when he sees how her gaze tracks the movement. “I didn’t feel any pain at all.”

“But was that because of the gloves, or because you have an absurd pain tolerance?” she mutters. She cradles his hands in hers, brushing her thumbs over the twisted, gnarled scars covering them. Some of his knuckles are bloodied, but none of the bones are broken. 

She presses gentle kisses to his fingertips, each one in turn, and to the stump of his missing little finger as she tugs his gloves back on, fastening the buttons at his wrist. He brushes a stray lock of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear, his other hand grazing the swell of her belly. 

“He’s going to die tonight,” she promises him, and seals it with a long, lingering kiss. “He’s never touching us ever again.”

Theon helps her to her feet, wrapping his arm around her waist as he kisses her again. “I love you,” he murmurs. 

“And I, you.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Ramsay’s eyes blink as far open as they can go, too badly swollen to open fully. His face is a masterwork of blood from Theon’s beating. He coughs out a glob of blood, wincing in pain. 

Theon’s hands cup her breasts through her dress, his thumbs skimming over her nipples. Even through the heavy fabric and his gloves, she can feel the warmth of his hands, their gentle strength, and moans in pleasure. 

Knowing that Ramsay is here, that he’s watching, that he’s going to die—it makes heat coil in her, makes her spread her thighs for Theon. 

“Ah,” Ramsay rasps, blood bubbling and dribbling from his lips with every word. “Sansa and Reek. Hello again.”

“Do you want,” Theon says, hand on the back of her thigh, the hard length in his trousers pressed against her leg. 

“Yes, yes,” she gasps. “Fuck me, Theon.” The word still brings a faint flush to her cheek, but it’s drowned by the flush of excitement. This is happening. 

“How do you want me?” 

“From behind.” She wants to see Ramsay watching them, wants to see him die in the dogs’ teeth, wants to feel Theon’s body pressed against hers. 

“What a lovely dress you’re wearing, wife. It reminds me of our wedding night.”

She turns in Theon’s arms, feeling him covering her. He kisses her neck, his hands on the curve of her belly; she rolls her hips back against his, drawing a low moan out from him. 

“Our time together is going to come to an end, isn’t it? That’s alright.” Ramsay is grinning. “You can’t kill me.” 

Sansa smirks. Theon lifts her skirts, running a finger along the wet furrow between her legs, sliding in easily. She loves him, loves this, loves that the last thing Ramsay sees is going to be Theon fucking her. 

“I’m part of both of you now,” Ramsay says, with the air of someone imparting a great truth. “And that babe in your belly is always going to be mine, wife.”

Laughter bubbles out of her. “As though your bastard seed could ever take root in me.” Even bound and kneeling on the floor of the kennels, the word _bastard_ makes him glare. Theon slides into her, thrusting shallowly. She can feel his smile against her skin, his hands cradling her belly, their babe. “You forced your way between my thighs every night for most of a year, and yet Theon got me with child as soon as we started lying together. Only a prince’s seed could ever be good enough to get a babe on me. After all, I’m a Princess of Winterfell, sister to the King in the North. What are you, Ramsay Snow? A _bastard_ with pretensions to a title and a castle that will never be yours. No bastard can compare to a trueborn prince.” She twists in Theon’s arms, kissing him. His hand comes up to cradle her head as he deepens the kiss, still thrusting into her. His tongue darts out to the seam of her lips, and she opens for him eagerly, her hand cupping his cheek. 

His eyes are dark and hungry when they pull apart, savoring the moment. She shivers with desire, clenching down on his cock. He groans with pleasure, pressing deeper into her.

“Your words will disappear,” Theon tells Ramsay, pushing into Sansa with each word. “Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear.”

One of the dogs growls, pacing forward. Ramsay’s head rolls on his shoulders towards the sound. Another dog walks out of the kennels, towards where Ramsay is bloodied and bound. He’s on his knees on the sandy floor; there’s nothing between him and the dogs. 

“My hounds are loyal. They’d never harm me.”

“You haven’t fed them in seven days,” she reminds him. “You said it yourself.”

“They’re loyal beasts.” Ramsay tries to sneer. It doesn’t work.

“They were. Now they’re starving.” She channels, just for a moment, Cersei Lannister. She will always hate the woman, but she still learned from her example to go after an enemy’s weaknesses ceaselessly. Ramsay’s bastardy is too obvious a weak point to pass up. “Do you want to hear a secret before you die, Ramsay Snow? Power isn’t something you get from money or books or threats. Power, true power, the right to rule? That’s something you’re born with. It can’t be faked or forced. Either you have it or you don’t.”

“This is where you belong, Snow,” Theon adds. “On your knees before your betters.”

One dog puts its paws on Ramsay’s lap, investigating the bloody cut of meat in front of it. 

“Sit,” Ramsay orders. The dog’s tongue passes over Ramsay’s face, tasting the blood. Ropes of saliva drip from its jaws. “Down. Down!”

Sansa moans at the panic in his voice, Theon’s voice in harmony with hers. His breathing’s grown ragged, harsh gasps against the back of her neck. 

“Down! Down!” Ramsay’s struggling, trying to get away, pulling at the restraints, but even if he could get free, the gate is securely locked and the hounds are hungry. She almost hopes he succeeds, just to see him try to flee the inevitable. “Down!”

It’s his last word. The dog lunges, biting Ramsay’s jaw and ripping it open in a gush of blood. Ramsay screams, a strange and guttural sound. Sansa peaks with a cry of _Theon!_ , her head lolling back against his shoulder, sparks flaring behind her eyelids.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Theon says, kissing her temple. “Fuck, Sansa, I love you.”

The words send just as much a thrill through her as the first time Theon said them. 

Leather splits as the other dog bites through Ramsay’s jerkin, tearing into the flesh behind. His intestines squiggle out of the large gash on his stomach, quickly gobbled up by the dog. The other hounds in the kennel come out now, warier than the first two, but joining their fellows in the feast. 

Sansa watches, transfixed, as Ramsay dies; it’s mostly hidden behind the greedy dogs rending his flesh and bone, but she can hear his screaming stop, his breathing growing more labored and desperate, see his body twitching and twisting and finally collapsing against the floor. 

Bones crunch as the dogs rip into Ramsay’s corpse. Sansa catches glimpses of the carnage as the dogs move around—a bloodsoaked hand, ribs splayed open to get at the organs within, strips of skin hanging from the dogs’ jaws. 

The sandy floor is soaked with blood. Wet chips of bone are fought over by the snapping, snarling hounds. Theon drives his hips into her roughly, his moan as he spends muffled in her hair.

They pull apart slowly. Theon takes the damp cloth from the table and folds it over to a clean side, wiping off the seed dripping slowly down her thighs. He presses feather-light kisses as he goes, his rough beard scratching lightly against the soft, sensitive skin there. Sansa keens, eyes fluttering closed as she rocks against him. 

“Eager for more, my love?” She can’t see him under her skirts, but she can hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Stop teasing, _my love_.”

“Hmm.” Theon kisses her again, nipping at her skin. “I rather like teasing you.”

“ _Theon_.”

“Especially when I can get you to make the prettiest noises.” He rubs his cheeks against the spot he had nipped, the soft bristle of his beard dragging against her thigh and making her moan his name. “But I’ll be quick. It wouldn’t do to be late for our wedding.”

His mouth closes around the swollen bud of her clit, and she braces herself against the gate of the kennels with a gasp, the cold iron a sharp contrast against the warmth filling her, the pleasure piercing through her like a spear. 

“Theon,” she whines, “Theon, I need—”

His hands cup her upper thighs, holding her against him, fingers digging into her skin. “I’ve got you, love,” he murmurs into her, sending thrills and sparks of pleasure up her spine. “I’ll take care of you.”

Her peak comes quickly; it’s smaller than the other one, less intense, just a sweet release of tension that leaves her boneless as Theon slips out from under her skirts, pliant in his arms as he holds her about the waist. 

She closes her eyes, feeling Theon’s hands running up and down her arms, breathing him in. 

There’s blood splattered along the hem of her skirts as she walks out into the godswood beside Rickon. Snow falls softly around her. She can’t help but think that it’s purifying, covering the world with a gentle blanket before it washes away any lingering trace of blood and tears with the spring melt. 

Theon waits by the heart tree, his lips parted in silent shock around her name as he sees her. She doesn’t look any different from when they were in the kennels, but she knows how he feels. In the torchlight, with the weirwood leaves rustling around them, the world seems to glow, and Theon is in the center of it all. 

She thinks she might have stepped into an illumination: the torches gold leaf around them, red ochre coloring her hair, Theon’s clothes and hair black as the best ink. 

Jon and Rickon are reciting the words of the ritual around them, but she hardly hears their voices as she watches the light catch on flecks of gold in Theon’s eyes. 

“Sansa, will you take this man?” Jon asks her, voice gentle.

“I take this man,” she says. Theon settles his cloak around her shoulders, the golden kraken flashing in the firelight. 

He’s hardly the golden prince she dreamed of, rougher and darker, but she thinks he’s exactly the man her father promised her. Brave and gentle and strong, a true prince—and he's _hers_. 

Their lips meet in a kiss, the falling snowflakes crowning them both.

"My wife," Theon whispers, as though testing the words.

"My husband," Sansa returns, smiling. The giggles bubble out of her, giddy as a girl, and Theon laughs too, their foreheads bumping together, their hands joined. 

No matter what comes in the wars still to be fought, this will always be theirs. After everything that's happened to them, they're finally free.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [robbeonsa](robbeonsa.tumblr.com)


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